


Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [10]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe, In honor of the Party Like It's 1999 celebration of Q/O Support!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In honor of the 15th anniversary of the release of TPM in theatres</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?

Title: Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me?

Author: Lady Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality, Humor, Romance

Rating: R

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me (archived)

Summary: Ben asks Quinn to attend a Star Wars prequel trilogy marathon. 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in his playground.

Special thanks to Katbear and Merry Amelie, notre betas par excellence!

Feedback: please feed the hungry bunnies

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess  
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  


NOTE: Master Red_921 has Knighted this unworthy padawan and passed the Lessons lightsaber to my humble keeping. May the Force be with you always, Master.

 

For Helen, who asked so nicely for a story in honor of the 15th anniversary of the release of TPM in theatres

~*~*~*~

“Are you sure you’re up to this? I mean, really, we can skip it,” Ben said, concern etched all over his handsome face as he helped Quinn settle into his big easy chair. The crutches leaned precariously against the fireplace wall. 

“Nonsense,” Quinn assured him with a hearty grin that almost (but not quite) masked the deep sigh of relief as Ben settled the ottoman under his right leg. “It’s all you’ve talked about for weeks. Of course we’re going.” He patted the big Ace bandage on his knee. “This is nothing. I’m only sorry it had to act up when it did.”

“You call this 'acting up?" Ben asked in disbelief, even as he maneuvered a squishy pillow under the injured joint. “When you tripped on those steps, you scared the shit out of me. You're damned lucky it was *just* your knee. It could just as easily have been your fucking *neck.* Why the hell can’t you use an elevator like normal people?” Fortunately, Ben had been in the second floor Bio lab rectifying Quinn’s latest computer disaster and had come running when he’d heard the commotion. A quick cell phone call to 911 and an ambulance had whisked them both to the Emergency Room.

Quinn shook his head, both at the profanity and the younger man’s truculence. “Pax, General,” he sighed, holding up both hands in surrender. He’d already caught hell from Mark Winters (who had characteristically fixated on whether the school’s workers’ compensation coverage was paid up) and from Adele (who had offered him his choice of an antique walking stick or having Bernini trained as a seeing-eye dog). 

Truth be told, the knee ached like Dante’s nine circles of Hell, but Ben had been so excited about attending the movie marathon that he hated to disappoint him. He could manage the crutches fairly well, as long as there weren’t any stairs to contend with. A few well-considered precautions and everything would be fine. He hoped.

“So tell me more about this ‘Star Wars’ phenomenon,” Quinn gamely asked, as Ben retreated to the sofa, settling his laptop on the broad-based mahogany lap desk Quinn had had made for him. Pure genius design, even if he did say so himself. Lightweight but sturdy, with a built-in mouse pad on one side and room for papers on the other. Even a convenient carrying handle and a cut-out cup holder. Ben had been delighted with the impromptu gift. Quinn had simply enjoyed his pleasure in it. 

“It’s a whole subculture,” Ben replied, thankfully overlooking the blatant change of subject. “George Lucas and Steven Spielberg created it back in the 70s, with Episode Four, ‘A New Hope.’ There were three separate movies to begin with, see, Episodes Four, Five and Six. Like the old-time serials, remember those? When you went to the movies every week to see the latest installment? Well, it really took off, so fifteen years ago, Lucas decided to go back and fill in some of the blanks in the storyline with the *prequel* trilogy, starting with Episode One, ‘The Phantom Menace.’ Then he followed it up with Episodes Two and Three, and then, well, it kind of exploded all over again. Now there’s ‘The Clone Wars’ animated movie and the TV series and…”

Quinn tried valiantly to follow, but failed miserably. “I… see,” he murmured, rubbing his temples with one hand while simultaneously trying to adjust his swollen knee on the ottoman. He was only vaguely familiar with the whole “Star Wars” genre; science fiction didn’t hold any real interest for him. However, Ben was so obviously enthralled that Quinn must needs pay attention and at least try to appear supportive. “And this marathon tonight is what, the prequel or the original or something in between?” 

“The prequel, just the first three parts of the story. But they’re actually the *second* set of movies to be released,” Ben clarified, apparently over his earlier snit about Quinn’s stubbornness. “So you’ll be coming into it from the beginning of the storyline, but a lot of the themes and plot were already established in the original movies, see?” He paused, then added thoughtfully, “you really need to see those first to understand what’s going on.”

Oh, my God, thought Quinn despairingly. Homework beforehand? “Well, let’s just plan on you catching me up as we go along, shall we?”

“Absolutely, love.” 

“Thank you.” 

Peace reigned.

~*~*~*~

Ben trailed off his detailed description of the Star Wars universe when he saw Quinn’s eyes glazing, much as they had pretty much any other time he’d tried to explain his secret obsession. He knew the feeling: when Quinn got going on one of *his* passions (and there were several), it was hard to take it all in, much less appear more than politely interested. 

Besides, the poor guy was on some pretty strong pain meds and probably deserved a break. Too bad he’d taken that spill in the Ferguson Building that morning and reinjured his bad knee. The doctor had wanted to do exploratory surgery, but Quinn had flatly refused. Ben had even called in Adele for back-up, but their favorite botanist could be unbelievably mulish, even while lying half-naked on an examining table. It was Exam Week, and damn it, he was going to be on the job, whether anyone else liked it or not. They’d compromised on a prescription for oxycodone and his sworn promise to stay on crutches and off stairs for at least three weeks. Which meant using the elevator whether he wanted to or not.

The fact that the bedrooms were on the second floor of the brownstone probably hadn’t yet occurred to him, but Ben didn’t press the point. He could always make up the couch, or even rent Quinn a hospital bed for the duration.

“And this marathon tonight is what, the prequel or the original or something in between?” The words were soft, slightly slurred, but surprisingly attentive. So Quinn *had* been listening, after all. Ben smiled. The fellow really was trying, so he’d cut him some slack.

“The prequel, just the first three parts of the story. But they’re actually the *second* set of movies to be released,” Ben explained patiently, not for the first time. “So you’ll be coming into it from the beginning of the storyline, but a lot of the themes and plot were already established in the original movies, see? You really need to see those first to understand what’s going on.”

“Mmm,” Quinn said noncommittally, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Well, let’s just plan on you catching me up as we go along, shall we?” he murmured, clearly already half-asleep. “I am… looking forward… to it.” The last was mumbled, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Absolutely, love.” Ben smiled sympathetically and let Quinn rest while he occupied himself with his favorite Star Wars websites. 

Studying the TPM movie poster, he was struck by the image of Qui-Gon Jinn, the noble Jedi master who had been Obi-Wan Kenobi’s beloved teacher and mentor before his untimely demise at the end of the movie. Quinn would have made a splendid Jedi, he thought, glancing over at his now somnolent lover in the big armchair. The same regal bearing, the same innate integrity and unshakeable sense of honor. Not to mention a *very* impressive built-in lightsaber. The inadvertent double entendre made him chuckle quietly, even as he felt the familiar hot flush crawl up his neck and cheeks. 

Maybe he could talk Quinn into some role-playing after his knee healed up… 

~*~*~*~

Quinn groaned silently as he followed Ben through the double doors. What on earth had he let himself get talked into? Hordes of people of all ages milled about the theatre lobby, calling greetings and chattering excitedly about the upcoming movie marathon. It reminded him of the Academy’s legendary keg parties, which he typically took care to avoid. 

Many were in get-ups about which he could only speculate. Several wore cream or white outfits that vaguely resembled karate uniforms but for the military style leather boots, topped by flowing hooded capes to the floor. They clutched long glowing plastic rods of various colors that emitted unsettling hums and buzzes when they collided. Lightsabers, Ben explained, sotto voce, the weapon of the Jedi, the “good guys” in the Star Wars universe. Three or four were actually doing *battle* right there in the lobby, to the cheers of the bystanders, including Ben. Quinn found himself wondering if the two double shots of liquid fortification (aka 90-proof Irish whiskey) he’d tossed back just before leaving the house were playing tricks on his mind. Probably should have eaten something, but he’d just get some popcorn when they got inside. Right now he felt more alien than the outrageously costumed attendees. 

Inspiration struck, and his inner clinician abruptly took command. He would treat the evening as an intellectual exercise in anthropology. Should have brought along a notebook…

Now in full-blown “scientist” mode, he scrutinized the “Jedi” in the room, noticing some wore long thin braids down one side of their heads, which Ben explained designated one as a “padawan learner,” apprenticed to a Jedi master until such time as he or she was ready to face the “Trials” (whatever the hell *they* were) and be Knighted. Ben would make a beautiful “padawan learner,” in the signature robe, cream tunics and leggings, oh yes-

All right, back to work, *Doctor* Donovan! He gave himself a mental shake for the errant thought pattern. Anthropology, right. 

Dear God in Heaven, what the hell was that easily seven-foot tall hairy *thing* rumbling and growling ahead of them? Did they have Yetis in this alternate universe? It was clearly about to have a fit of apoplexy over some real or imagined slight. And was it actually wearing *bandoliers?* Quinn glanced around uneasily for security and wondered if he could fend it off with a crutch. Not bloody likely. Not even a claymore would likely have stopped the creature for long.

“Relax,” Ben said, laughing as he waved to the behemoth, who howled and chuffed a greeting in return. “That’s Chewbacca, he’s a Wookiee. They’re a really old warrior race. Great costume, don’t you think?”

Quinn tried not to stare as the “Wookiee” made its way to the men’s restroom. How was he going to relieve himself? And who would be brave enough to stand anywhere nearby?

A noise at the lobby entrance caused both men to turn. A young man entered, followed by a very attractive young woman in a skimpy harem outfit, long brown hair falling in an elaborate braid down her back. Around her slim neck was a stylized metal collar, to which was attached a lightweight chain, held firmly by her companion. Her demeanor was wholly submissive, while the young man walked proudly upright, keeping his prize close at hand. Oohs and ahhs sounded around the room, but Quinn noticed Ben’s scowl and moved closer, silently asking for enlightenment.

“Wrong movie. Wrong *trilogy,*” Ben muttered, just loudly enough for Quinn to hear. “She’s supposed to be Princess Leia of Alderaan. I guess the guy couldn’t find a Hutt costume.” He shook his head at the apparent blasphemy, but Quinn hardly heard. The image that had sprung to mind had him frozen in place. 

Ben, collared and leashed, naked but for the briefest of silken loincloths. His oiled body gleamed in dim candlelight, proudly displayed for his master’s pleasure. Quinn swallowed hard and angled his body toward Ben’s, hoping to camouflage the physical impact. Shite, he was turning into a full-blown pervert! Ben was no man’s slave; he was a strong, independent (sometimes entirely *too* much so) grown man, and Quinn had never been a fan of BDSM in any form. But the picture stubbornly remained and he had to force himself to concentrate on steadying his crutches with hands that were suddenly sweating. 

He’d have given everything he owned in that moment for a room with a door that locked.

~*~*~*~

Ben was hard put to keep a straight face at Quinn’s stunned reactions to the costumed characters milling around the theatre. Everything from Jedi (naturally) of various races to droids to a Wookiee in full bandoliers. How did you explain a Wookiee to someone who didn’t know the first thing about Star Wars? Especially considering you might find yourself standing next to one in the men’s room? The movie hadn’t even started yet and Quinn was already in a mild state of shock. 

Lightsabers twirled and buzzed electric, narrowly missing a couple of heads, but everyone was having a great time. He stuck close to Quinn’s side to prevent him from falling and smiled grateful thanks as most people politely gave them a wide berth. 

The Star Wars purist in him decried the voluptuous Princess Leia in her signature metal bikini from “Return of the Jedi.” After all, she and Luke hadn’t even been conceived until years after TPM. Or maybe he was just jealous of Quinn’s intense scrutiny. That costume *was* pretty revealing, after all. No, he suddenly realized to his chagrin, it wasn’t the girl, exactly. Rather, he was imagining *himself* in that collar and chain, with Quinn holding the other end. The vision was simultaneously disturbing and incredibly arousing. And, it hadn’t been the first such fantasy.

Ben heard Quinn’s sharp intake of breath beside him and turned quickly to make sure he hadn’t hurt himself. The tall man leaned heavily on his crutches and his face was red, as if from exertion. Or pain. Concerned, Ben reached out to steady him, but Quinn shook his head and gave him a small smile. 

“You okay?” Ben whispered. “Is it bad? Would you rather leave?”

“No, no, it’s- it’s fine, lad, really. I just turned too quickly, that’s all. Sorry.” The shaky voice belied the reassuring words.

“You need to sit down, love. Come on, let’s get you inside. I’ll bring us some popcorn and drinks and you can relax before the movie starts. It’s a madhouse in here.”

~*~*~*~

The usher let them in ahead of the others, and pointed out a wheelchair-ready section where Quinn could stretch out his injured leg in comfort. A wheelchair would actually have made a lot more sense, in retrospect, but Quinn had fiercely vetoed that idea at the hospital. 

Ben made sure he was settled, then headed for the concession stand. Knowing Quinn’s predilection for downplaying any discomfort, Ben had surreptitiously snagged his bottle of pain meds, just in case. After several moments’ internal debate, he carefully dropped a tablet in Quinn’s soda cup and watched it dissolve. By now, the shot they'd given him at the hospital would probably have worn off, and he wasn’t about to let his big guy suffer in silence. A single pill would just make him more comfortable, he rationalized. He had to look out for Quinn’s best interests, since he clearly wasn’t going to do it for himself. Bullheaded Irishman. He was convinced he was not only invulnerable, but immortal to boot. Adele swore he’d pick a fight with St Peter at the Pearly Gates and demand to be sent back. 

Please, God, let *that* not be for be years and years, Ben prayed silently. He’s too badly needed and wanted and loved down here. 

Juggling two sodas and a tub of buttered popcorn, he headed back inside. 

~*~*~*~

Quinn leaned back and allowed the orchestral music to flow over and around him as the theatre quickly filled. The wheelchair cut-out was on the aisle, so he’d only have Ben beside him. The theatre was huge, and Ben was going on in his ear about the recently updated state-of-the-art audio and visual systems. They shared a love for films and the theatre, even if their tastes in subject matter were somewhat divergent. 

There was a momentary dust-up as the “Wookiee” loudly objected to the limited choice of seating, then shrugged and removed his “head” and sat down next to a man in a leather vest and open-necked white shirt that vaguely reminded Quinn of a pirate costume. They seemed to know each other. Ben explained that the man was the Wookiee’s partner and pilot, one Han Solo, also from the later trilogy, but a big fan favorite. Quinn was surprised to hear that Harrison Ford of Indiana Jones fame had played the role. Too bad he wouldn’t be in the movies they were seeing tonight, but it might make the earlier/later movies worth watching. 

He took advantage of the diversion to quietly up-end the airplane-size bottle of Irish whiskey he’d secreted in his jacket into his cup. He definitely needed liquid fortification if he was going to get through this night.

The lights dimmed, then with a crash of cymbals the signature John Williams theme music blared to life, amid cheers and wild applause. Startled, Quinn jerked upright, then sheepishly relaxed again as Ben absently patted his arm and passed the popcorn, eyes riveted to the screen. Words began to scroll up from the bottom – nice artistic touch, that – and Quinn squinted in the darkness, trying to focus his somewhat fogged brain. 

The scene abruptly morphed to outer space. The hooded characters on the spaceship in the foreground reminded Quinn oddly of Christmas Yet to Come from Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol,” except that neither was, fortunately, carrying a scythe. Grim Reapers, perhaps? An allegory of things yet to come?

“No, Jedi Knights,” Ben whispered with a smile. 

Ah, yes, like the ones in the lobby. These were the “good guys.” He approved. Carry on, gentlemen.

~*~*~*~

As the familiar opening scenes played out, Ben occasionally glanced over at Quinn, trying to gauge his reactions. It was a lot to take in, especially for someone wholly unfamiliar with the Star Wars universe. Quinn’s expression seemed a bit unfocused, but that could just be a trick of the light. More importantly, he didn’t appear to be in pain. Hopefully the oxycodone was keeping the worst of it under control. Ben wouldn’t hesitate to take them out of there if it got too much for him. Quinn could knock himself out when they got home, and Ben would see to Bernini come morning.

~*~*~*~

Quinn struggled to follow the storyline. Whatever were those reptilian creatures in the robes and the designer headgear? Were they also Jedi? Apparently not, as they seemed bent on causing the “good guys” harm. And why were they speaking in vaguely Asian accents? The “droidekas” (whatever the hell they were) reminded the Irish-born botanist of nothing more than oversized Japanese beetles, except that they walked upright and fired weapons a la the gunfight at the OK Corral. 

Nice bit of evasive maneuvering with the – what was it? – Oh, right, lightsabers, he congratulated himself for remembering, on the part of the two Jedi. The younger one reminded him of Ben, albeit with shorter hair. Except for that silly braid, which seemed more a liability than an asset. And what was the point of that ridiculous little pigtail in the back? He glanced over at his companion, brought up short by the open pleasure on the mobile face. In that moment, he resolved to thoroughly educate himself on this phenomenon that held his young lover so enthralled. 

~*~*~*~

Ben fought to control his laughter at some of Quinn’s stage-whispered commentary. At first he’d thought his beloved biologist was merely trying to get a rise out of him. But it was increasingly obvious the drugs had kicked in big-time and Quinn was stoned. He must have a low tolerance for narcotics. Others in the audience apparently concurred; chuckles and giggles surrounded them, which only seemed to egg him on. 

On Jar Jar Binks: “What on earth *is* that poor creature? Looks like a zoology experiment gone way wrong. And wherever did it learn to walk upright and crucify the Queen’s English that way?” 

On Boss Nass: “Looks a bit like the head of the Board of Governors, doesn’t he? Sounds like him, too, especially at the last faculty Christmas party!” Ben cringed, hoping there weren’t too many Academy students in the audience. He had to admit there was a bit of a resemblance, judging from the portraits that graced the Administration Building.

Upon the Jedi’s arrival in the Naboo capitol from below the ocean floor: “Ah, Venetia! Ever been there, Ben? I’ll take you one day. It’s beautiful.” He kissed his fingers to the sky, and Ben hastily pulled his arm back down before people behind him started to complain. He could hear a couple of rude sniggers behind them and turned to glare. 

Padme was dubbed a “bloody hormonal cougar.” Why on earth, Quinn demanded, would such an attractive young woman be interested in a small child, when there was a bonny young Jedi right in front of her? Ben groaned. He probably should have explained Anakin Skywalker aka Darth Vader ahead of time. To Quinn’s clearly drug-addled thinking, the best known character in the Star Wars universe had a lot of unresolved ‘mommy’ issues. 

Watto was denounced as “an appallingly ugly Marlon Brando wannabe,” though Quinn did seem to enjoy the by-play between the blue-skinned junkyard owner and Qui-Gon Jinn. Ben thought to himself that had Quinn been in the Jedi master’s place, Watto would never have escaped without giving up not only the hyperdrive, but probably half his inventory as well. No one could barter like Quinn. His talents were legend.

R2D2 called to mind Quinn’s autoclave in the bio lab. That one, at least, almost made sense. 

Then Ben nearly choked on his soda when C-3PO was compared to straitlaced Professor Smythe-Wellington with a wicked case of jock itch. Quinn solicitously pounded him on the back, scattering popcorn all over the aisle. Fortunately, the seats had cup holders, or both of them would have been drenched. 

Ben struggled to regain his composure. “Shut up and watch the movie, Quinn.” 

~*~*~*~

The Jedi master had fought valiantly but now lay motionless on the cold floor, life slowly ebbing away, even as his apprentice held him in his arms and tearfully begged him to live. The traditional passing of the flame, or, in this case, quite literally the passing of the lightsaber. It should have been the worst kind of hokum, but somehow it brought a lump to Quinn’s throat. Then he felt a hand slip into his in the darkness. Ben’s eyes were bright in the reflection of the screen, and Quinn had to fight the urge to pull him into his arms, to shield him from the inevitable. 

Fool, he thought, Ben’s got this film memorized. So why is it getting to him this way? Or to me?

~*~*~*~

The climactic death scene had always deeply affected Ben, but tonight was different. He kept seeing Quinn lying on the Ferguson Building stairs, knee rapidly swelling in his tailored slacks, in obvious pain, but putting on a brave face so as not to frighten the students anxiously milling around. Poor Ani had been white as a sheet; he’d tried to catch him when Quinn had stumbled and only barely missed being injured himself. Ben had come running when he’d heard the boy scream. And when the ambulance arrived, he’d automatically climbed in with the patient, brooking no protests. As the lone adult there at the time, he’d told himself, it only made sense for him to go along. They’d deal with any fallout later. 

Now, as he watched Obi-Wan mourn the loss of his beloved master, he couldn’t help but reach out for Quinn, any part of him he could find in the dark, just to assure himself that his love was *there,* warm, breathing, alive. He resolutely kept his eyes on the screen, even as he felt the reassuring return squeeze on his fingers. Nothing was said, but their hands remained tightly clasped between the seats.

~*~*~*~

The drive home was quiet, as Ben concentrated on the road and Quinn concentrated on staying upright. Something in him said he owed Ben an apology, but he couldn’t quite figure out why at the moment. Hopefully clarity would come after a good night’s sleep. 

With Ben’s assistance, he managed to navigate the stairs to the master bedroom and collapsed gratefully into bed. Hands gently removed his clothing and he sleepily murmured his thanks. A few minutes later, Ben slid carefully into bed next to him and turned out the light. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and the world faded away.

~*~*~*~

Sunshine peeped through the bedroom curtains and Quinn slowly came awake. Glancing at the clock, he was shocked to see it was nearly 10:00 am. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept that late. Even more surprising was the sight of Ben’s smiling face next to him on the opposite pillow. They’d *both* slept late? Where was Bernini?

“Morning,” whispered Ben, snuggling onto Quinn’s shoulder. “How’re you feeling?”

Quinn took stock. “Better, I think,” he said cautiously, even as he automatically stroked Ben’s soft hair. “Where’s the dog?”

“I took him out this morning and let you sleep. He’s probably downstairs somewhere.”

“Thank you,” Quinn said, grateful he’d not have to try to navigate the crutches around a golden retriever intent on doing its business. 

“No worries,” Ben said, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You needed the rest, after last night’s festivities.”

Ah yes, the movie marathon. Jumbled pictures came to mind of weird aliens, odd machinery and a beautiful young man in a cream-and-brown outfit crying over the body of a similarly clad older man on a cold metal floor. Strange that this one scene was so clear.

Ben seemed oddly mobile in his arms and he glanced down, trying to identify the strange muffled sounds emanating from somewhere north of his navel. It almost sounded as if the lad was… *laughing?* “Ben? Are you all right?” The chuckles continued, now threatening to turn into guffaws. And Quinn could have sworn he heard something about… leprechauns? He tugged on Ben’s shoulder. “What is going on, if one may ask?” 

Ben rolled over onto his back, no longer making any attempt to conceal his hilarity. “I was just remembering some of the things you said last night, that’s all.” He smirked. “You don’t handle pain meds very well, do you?”

Quinn struggled to sit up, then grimaced as the knee abruptly objected. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“You really don’t remember, do you?” Ben made a visible effort to compose himself. “Have you ever taken oxycodone before?”

“I don’t believe so, no. Why do you ask?”

“Well, apparently you have a *very* low tolerance for it. You were kind of… off kilter last night.” Ben fussed with the blankets, lips still twitching in remembered amusement.

“But I didn’t take any pills last night,” Quinn insisted. “Only what they gave me at the hospital.” 

“Yeah, you did, actually. I slipped one in your drink when we got to the theatre. I figured you’d probably need to take the edge off at some point and brought them along, just in case.” Ben sounded chagrined, even as he continued to chuckle. “Your mind sure runs in strange directions when you’re stoned, did you know that?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Quinn said, with injured dignity. “I am *never* ‘stoned,’ thank you very much. Nor was I drunk, for that matter. A few shots of whiskey is hardly enough to incapacitate me.”

Ben stared. “When did you have whiskey?” he asked suspiciously.

“Right before we left the house, of course. I thought it best, since we’d be in the theatre for several hours.” He thought back. “And a wee bit of a chaser in my coat pocket, just in case.” He shrugged unconcernedly. Quinntrell Donovan did *not* get drunk in public. His father had taught him at an early age to hold his liquor like a gentleman. 

Comprehension dawned in leaf-green eyes. “Holy shit. You mixed whiskey *and* Oxy? Holy shit, Quinn! I just figured the shot at the hospital had probably worn off, and your knee would be hurting.” His hand trembled as he reached to stroke Quinn’s cheek. “I’m so sorry. You poor devil, you really *were* crocked, weren’t you?” 

“*If* I were, the proper term would be ‘crunked,’” Quinn corrected, with a small smile, “as in simultaneously drunk *and* crocked.” While he steadfastly refused to admit to having been even partially incapacitated, he couldn’t find it in his heart to scold Ben for any lapse of judgment over the oxycodone. If Ben could forgive his apparent aberrant behavior at the theatre, then he supposed he could overlook having been slipped a well-intentioned Mickey Finn. The lad was already beating himself enough up over it. 

He closed his eyes, thinking back to the previous evening. Details were a bit blurry (and small wonder, he grudgingly realized), but he’d thought he had comported himself fairly well. A veteran of years of Academy fundraisers and similar boring-but-necessary events, he knew how to project interest, even spontaneity while mentally coordinating syllabi, exam questions and the like. But last night he’d been ambushed by his overly solicitous lover, and now he needed to know just how bad the fallout was going to be. “Tell me.”

Ben took a deep breath, then lay back down on Quinn’s shoulder. “Well, let’s see. You thought the Wookiee in the lobby was a Yeti,” he began. “Then you called Jabba the Hutt a ‘slug on steroids,’ and I won’t even go into what you said about Boss Nass and the Gungans-”

“Sounds like a really bad name for a rock-and-roll group.”

“Yeah, well, you said the head Gungan looked like one of the Board of Governors.”

“Merciful God in Heaven…” Quinn groaned.

“Uh huh. And that was light.” Ben patted his arm reassuringly. “Most of the audience thought you were a hoot. I tried to tell them you didn’t know anything about Star Wars, and that you were hopped up on pain pills and… well, they were pretty open-minded about the whole thing, for the most part.”

“What else?” Clearly, he was just getting started. 

“You called Master Yoda a 'bonny wee leprechaun,' complete with shillelagh.” At Quinn’s wide-eyed look, Ben nodded. “Yep, you sure did. *Loudly,* too. And by the way, it’s not a shillelagh, it’s a gimer stick. Don’t confuse the two.” Ben made a mental note to order the life-size Master Yoda doll from the Disney catalog for Quinn's birthday. He'd never hear the end of it, but it would be so worth it. 

“Is that it?” Quinn mentally steeled himself.

“No, not quite. My personal favorite was when you said C-3PO reminded you of Professor Smythe-Wellington.” He paused. “With *jock itch.*” His eyes danced and his shoulders began to shake.

“Yes, well, I’m sure it was particularly well deserved,” Quinn growled. He and the visiting English Lit professor had taken an instant dislike to one another at a faculty tea at Sydney Hall, ostensibly over geopolitical differences. In point of fact, Quinn’s keen sense of humor couldn’t resist targeting the guest lecturer’s over-developed sense of self-importance. Ben had howled with laughter as Adele described the Englishman’s pompous recitation of his curriculum vitae to anyone who would listen. Quinn had perversely sidestepped all questions about his own impressive credentials, his brogue so deep as to be nearly impossible to understand. “Old Smellington,” as Quinn privately dubbed him thereafter, had rudely denounced him as an “upstart mick,” unworthy of any further notice. Fortunately, he had remained scrupulously polite to Adele, or the two men might have actually come to blows. 

Ben sat up, face still flushed with laughter. “I can’t believe you don’t even have a hangover. I guess Irishmen really *do* have hollow legs. But we need to be sure you don’t mix whiskey and oxycodone anymore.” 

“Yes, let’s not,” Quinn agreed, ignoring the hangover comment. It was the pill’s fault; he preferred his own homeopathic remedies, for good reason. But a small voice in the back of his mind said he’d not acted the gentleman, and he felt a need to make things right. He cleared his throat. “I assume these movies are available to rent or to own?”

“Uh huh,” Ben said absently, nuzzling Quinn’s bearded jaw. Quinn tried not to squirm.

“Shall we buy the set and you can educate me?” he asked.

“Not necessary, love. I have every release, except for the deluxe Blu-ray box set. Besides, I had fun last night, I really did. It was hardly fair to ask you to sit through over seven hours of stuff on a subject you knew next to nothing about anyway, without having to cope with a knee injury.” Ben stole a kiss. “But if you really want to learn, I can definitely help you there.”

Quinn heard the wistful note in Ben’s voice. Whatever the hell a “blue ray” was, it sounded like a grand way to make amends. “So where does one find this deluxe box set?”

“Anywhere.” Ben shrugged, then sat upright again, recognizing the warning signs. “Quinn Donovan, you don’t even own a *television,* much less a Blu-ray player. You don’t even have a DVD player, for that matter, except what’s on the laptop. Forget it. No way. Not happening.”

“Why? You keep telling me to move with the times. Seems like the perfect excuse to go shopping.” 

Ben sighed, knowing he’d already lost the argument. When Quinn got an idea in his head, it was almost impossible to dissuade him. “Okay, but not until you’re off the crutches, deal?”

“Deal.” Quinn thought for a moment. “Tell me about the scene in the first movie, at the end. When the older Jedi got killed?” Ben nodded. “That was really rather… touching. It seemed as if there was more than just a student-teacher relationship between them. Or was I mistaken?”

Ben nodded again, an odd smile playing on his lips. “Thousands of fans would agree with you. See, padawan learners are usually chosen by age 13, but they grow up in the Temple and that’s the only life they know. Then the master pretty much takes over and teaches the padawan one-on-one until the padawan is ready to be Knighted. Obi-Wan was about 25 when Qui-Gon died, so they’d been together a long time.” He caressed Quinn’s ribcage and the older man rumbled contentedly; he loved being petted. “I think that’s why Obi-Wan reacted so strongly when Darth Maul killed his master. He lost the one he loved more than life itself.” He looked up at Quinn, eyes solemn. “I know how *I’d* feel, if someone killed you in front of me.”

Quinn’s heart caught in his throat. “As would I, love,” he said, his voice husky as he pressed Ben tightly to his side. After a few moments, he dared to voice the other thought niggling in his head. “He called him ‘Master,’” he said slowly, feeling his way. At Ben’s confirming nod against his chest, he continued. “Was that an honorific, or…”

Ben leaned back and gazed seriously up into Quinn’s face. “Qui-Gon was his teacher, his mentor. It’s his title within the Order. You’d be ‘Master Donovan,’ or maybe ‘Master Quinntrell,’ if the Academy were a Jedi Temple.” 

“Does it infer any… other relationship?” 

“Like what?” Curious.

“As in a… slave?”

Ben gave a strange little laugh. “Got off on that girl in the harem outfit, did you? She was something, all right. Wrong trilogy, but it’s a really memorable scene in the very last movie. A teenager’s wet dream.” 

“But… *does* it?” Quinn persisted.

Ben grinned. “Well, not in canon, no. But I can show you some pretty hot ‘master-slave’ fanfics, if you’re interested.”

Quinn was intrigued. “What are ‘fanfics?’” he asked.

“You know, where people take the characters from a book or a movie or whatever and write their own stories about them. It’s a whole on-line cottage industry. And there’s *tons* of stuff that centers on Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan as lovers. A lot of it is really well done, too, better than a lot of commercially published stuff. I can show you a few of my favorites.” He hesitated, then added, blushing, “Some of it can be pretty... graphic, though. Are you sure you’re up to it?” Quinn could be surprisingly prudish outside of the bedroom, and Ben knew he’d have to pick and choose carefully what stories to share, at least at first. 

“Indeed,” Quinn murmured. He’d always scorned pornography as puerile and overblown, but Ben’s words had tapped into something deep inside, and he suddenly wanted to know more. He was surprised to feel himself hardening, even as he pictured Ben in a long Jedi robe and very little else. “How very… interesting.”

Almost as if reading his mind, Ben reached down and grasped Quinn’s penis. With a slow, sexy smile, he drawled, “So tell me, *Master,* is this your lightsaber or are you just glad to see me?”

~end~


End file.
